Double Double-Oh-Seven
by DoctorH
Summary: In the mid-early 1960s, Bond gets pulled into an undercover operation in Minnesota, an operation for which Bond is uniquely qualified. It ought to be a simple operation, but things don't go as expected. The clock is ticking on Bond's cover; he is soon to be exposed for who he is. No gadgets, no girls, no super-villains; just a test of Bond's capability to think under pressure.
1. Chapter 1

"Ah'm frum Jawjuh."

"That was better, Mr. Bond."

James Bond, an agent on Her Majesty's Secret Service, was getting a crash course in speaking with a Georgia accent. His teacher was a middle-aged lady named Charlotte.

"Remember that when making a conversational statement, to lift your voice at the end of the sentence, as if asking a question."

"Ah'm frum Jawjuh?" Bond responded at once, slurring the words slightly as Charlotte had instructed, and making the lift of his voice at the end of the statement soft and natural. Bond was rewarded with a glowing smile from Charlotte that had told him he'd said it very well indeed.

Charlotte was a few years older than Bond. Bond thought Charlotte was quite beautiful, not in the sense of being nice to look at, but in the sense of being _very_ nice to listen to.

When Charlotte introduced herself to him, Bond was immediately impressed with the stunning gorgeousness of her voice. Accents were Charlotte's specialty. She gave Bond a 60-second demonstration of her talents, reciting a poem in more than a dozen perfect accents from around the world.

Bond was amazed by her talent, and dazzled by her charm and her wit.

Her job was to train Bond to speak like a man from Atlanta, Georgia.

She had less than an hour to train him.

Charlotte began by asking Bond to speak with a Southern accent. Bond did so, deciding to quote the words from a sign posted outside the room: "Authorized persons only beyond this point." He thought he had spoken well, and that his accent was more than passable.

Charlotte felt otherwise. "You need to speak like someone from Georgia, Mr. Bond, not someone from Texas."

Bond was astonished; he had based his Southern accent upon the manner of speech he had heard from President Lyndon Johnson, a Texan. Charlotte was so skilled that she had picked up the regional accent he had mimicked.

People from Georgia, Charlotte explained, speak somewhat less distinctly than people from Texas, and tend to run their words together. And they seem to ask a lot of questions, even if they are only making statements.

Charlotte took Bond through a couple of dozen additional phrases that he might need. Most of Bond's attempts were fairly good, with Charlotte offering only a few modest corrections.

The hour was up before he knew it.

"Please be frank with me, Charlotte," Bond politely pleaded in his natural voice, as Charlotte gathered her things. "How did I do?"

Charlotte smiled. "You have quick ear, Mr. Bond, and you are a fast learner. With time and practice, I'm certain you could be quite proficient." Before Bond could feel too pleased with himself, Charlotte added with a smile, "Nevertheless, the less you say, the better."

Bond nodded, appreciating Charlotte's frankness. He was curious about something, though. "You are a very good teacher. Can you tell me, how it came to be that an accomplished speaker of different accents came to work for the American FBI?"

Charlotte giggled. "I used to be a stage actress and a movie consultant. The FBI pays better."


	2. Chapter 2

Bond sat in the chair and leaned back.

"Be comfortable, Mr. Bond," said Madeline, her expression and tone all business. "This will take about an hour. You may speak, but if I ask you to be silent, it would make my job easier if your would comply."

"Anything you say, Madeline."

There was nothing much in the room for Bond to look at. Madeline remained off to the side or to his rear. The only mirror in the room was behind him. The wall he faced was totally bare, though two small chairs were set up against the wall.

Bond decided to close his eyes and concentrate on the sensations of Madeline going to work.

Madeline began by trimming Bond's hair near his ears, and moving the part in his hair. She was totally absorbed in her work.

A voice abruptly came from behind Bond, a voice distinctly not Madeline's. "Where are you all from, Pardner?"

Without missing a beat, Bond responded in smooth tones,"Ah'm frum Jawjuh?"

"That's funny, you sound like you're from the North: Scotland or thereabouts."

Bond dropped his Georgia accent. "And you sound like a fellow from the Bowery trying to imitate an outhouse salesman from Nashville."

Felix Leiter laughed as he moved in front of Bond and sat in one of the empty chairs. "Ouch. A Brit thinks my Southern accent was that bad?"

"Didn't anybody tell you that they don't say 'you all'; they say 'y'all?'"

Leiter smirked. "Good observation. Since I'm in the CIA and not the FBI, I don't have too much opportunity to infiltrate Southern circles. Your Southern accent seems to be passable, I must say. Charlotte is a good teacher, isn't she?"

"Top shelf," Bond agreed.

"Did she tell you that she worked in Hollywood for a while, with men like Bogart and Gable and Cooper?"

Madeline scoffed. Bond wondered why Madeline reacted in that way.

"She told me she has worked as a consultant in the movies," Bond responded. "She didn't say who consulted with her."

"Some of the biggest names in the business." Leiter said coolly.

"Mr. Bond," Madeline interrupted, "I'm finished with your hair. I'm going to begin work on the beard now. It would help me if you would not speak quite as much."

"Of course."

"When did you last shave, Mr. Bond?"

"About half an hour ago, I should think."

"I see you have some scattered light stubble. Nothing to be concerned about." Madeline cleaned Bond's face and then began to apply a beard to his chin with a mild-smelling adhesive. The beard, Bond noted, included some gray hairs among the black. _When she's done,_ Bond thought, _I'm going to seem a wee bit older._ Madeline worked quickly yet painstakingly, frequently stepping back to examine her work from a distance, making occasional touches here and there.

Bond wondered how he looked. He could not see himself in the mirror to his rear. He could see Leiter's face, however, and the CIA agent's expression suggested that he was pleased with Madeline's work.

After a few more touches, Madeline stepped in front of Bond. "All right, Mr. Bond, say something, anything you like. Fifty words or so."

Bond said the first thing that came into his head:

"As some day it may happen that a victim must be found  
I've got a little list! I've got a little list  
Of society offenders who might well be underground  
And who never would be missed! Who never would be missed!"

Leiter broke into laughter, but Madeline was more concerned with watching how well her handiwork responded. "How does the beard feel, Mr. Bond?"

"Fine. I notice that it is there, but it is not uncomfortable or constraining. Feels quite natural, actually."

Madeline turned to Leiter. "What is your opinion, sir?"

Leiter's answer was prompt and to the point. "Perfect. Simply perfect. I'm sure Mr. Vandenberg would concur."

Madeline smiled for the first time; it was a smile of satisfaction. "Mr. Bond, perhaps you would care to see what you look like now?"

Bond slowly swiveled his chair until he saw his own reflection. Staring back at him was the face of Joshua Tipton. Though he knew that this was the result that they had been hoping to achieve, Bond was taken aback in spite of himself.

Bond moved in close to the mirror. He knew his beard was false, but even under very close scrutiny, it looked convincingly real.

"Top shelf, Madeline!" Bond exclaimed. "Absolutely spot on!"

"Thank you, Mr. Bond." Madeline stole a glance at Leiter. "You know, Mr. Bond, Charlotte isn't the only one who got her start in the movies, and who worked with some of the biggest names."

Bond smirked. "I take it you started in the movies as well, did you?"

"I'm sure you've seen some of my work," Madeline grinned. "Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe, Cary Grant, Spencer Tracy..."

Bond grinned back. "And now you work for the FBI?"

Madeline shrugged. "The pay is better."


	3. Chapter 3

A young man, wearing the uniform of a Customs officer, opened the door to the room and knocked on the door frame.

"Sirs, Tipton's flight has just landed."

Leiter turned to Bond. "That means Tipton will be at Customs in about fifteen minutes. It's almost showtime, James."

Tipton's plane was arriving in Minnespolis from Montreal, his final leg of a very long journey. Twenty hours ago, Tipton had been in Rome.

Twenty hours ago, Bond had been in Vancouver, British Columbia.

Bond's mission in Vancouver had been to determine whether certain intelligence offered by two supposed defectors was legitimate. The assignment would not be an easy one. The intelligence was said to be highly inflammatory, and it was not clear whether the East knew that the defectors were trying to buy their way into Canada. One or both defectors might be plants, or perhaps the intelligence was fake. If the defectors had failed to cover their tracks, enemy agents might be hot on their tails. The situation was uncertain, and volatile. It could get very ugly very quickly.

The situation did indeed get ugly, and it got ugly just hours before Bond arrived in Vancouver. An assassin armed with a pistol found the defectors and killed them, along with one of the men guarding the defectors. The assassin was then himself slain by the other guard. Bond arrived to find no defectors, no intelligence, and almost no clues as to what had occurred.

He stayed in Vancouver for five days to see whether he could help unravel what had happened. He then reported to M that the defectors appeared to be legitimate, and that their carelessness had allowed a freelance Cuban assassin to find them. Their intelligence, whatever it may have been, was lost.

M took the report with aplomb, as he usually did. He asked Bond no questions. Instead, he told Bond to return to London right away. "You've been booked on a flight to Toronto tomorrow, at nine in the morning, your time. From Toronto, you'll catch a flight to London. Have a pleasant journey, Double-Oh-Seven."

M hung up before Bond could finish saying, "Thank you, sir."

Bond woke early the next morning and ordered coffee, toast, and jam from room service. He shaved, showered, and packed his bags.

As he approached the front desk to check out, the clerk became animated. "Oh, Mr. Bond! We have just received a telephone call for you, from a Mr. Shermandale. We told him you had not yet checked out, and he asked us to to have you call him at this telephone number." The clerk handed Bond a slip of paper on which a telephone number had been written. Bond recognized the number at once.

'Thank you. May I use the house telephone to return the call? It is a local call."

"Yes, of course." The clerk pointed to a table in the lobby, upon which rested a white telephone. Near the table sat some other people, all of whom seemed to be minding their own business. Bond recognized one of them, a young man reading a newspaper, as someone he had seen in the lobby yesterday at about this time, and the day before that.

 _He is probably just another guest,_ Bond thought. _Even so, there will be no privacy for this call._

Thank you," Bond politely smiled at the clerk and turned toward the desk. A moment later, he turned back to face the clerk "Oh, I have summoned a taxi. If my taxi arrives while I am using the telephone, please ask him to wait for me, would you?"

"Of course, sir."

Bond lifted the receiver of the telephone and dialed the digits. A pleasant female voice answered: "Universal Exports."

"Mr. Shermandale, please. It's Bond calling."

"One moment, Mr. Bond." About ten seconds later, the pleasant female voice returned. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Bond, but Mr. Shermandale has departed for the airport. But he left word to tell you that your order, number two-four-nine-stroke-one, has been processed. He thought you would want to know."

"Quite right," Bond responded politely. "Thank you. Good-bye."

 _So I'm not going back to London by way of Toronto after all._ Since there was no way to be sure who might have been listening in while he spoke on the phone, Bond was notified in code that his travel plans had changed. He was not told _how_ they had changed, though; and he'd have to go to the airport to find out what his new destination would be.

His taxi arrived. Traffic was modest but became heavy near the airport. Even so, Bond arrived at the airport in good time.

Once inside the terminal, Bond looked for a pay phone in a booth. The airport was crowded, and Bond had to walk a distance to find an empty booth. He called a telephone number, different from the number he had dialed at the hotel. A male voice answered. "Universal Exports."

"Let me speak to Mr. Abercrombie at extension eight-zero-zero-seven, please."

"Certainly, sir. One moment, please." The line seemed to go dead, but Bond did not hang up.

After about a minute, M's voice abruptly came on the line. "You're going to Minneapolis, Minnesota, Double-Oh-Seven. Your flight leaves at just before eleven o'clock in the morning, your time."

"What is in Minneapolis, Minnesota?" Bond wondered.

"You'll have to discuss that with the American FBI," M replied. "I have authorized them to use you and your, er, 'talents' in an operation they're planning." And that was all M had to say.

Bond puzzled about this. What could the United States federal law enforcement agency possibly want with him? _Why on Earth had M seconded me to the FBI?_

Bond was fortunate enough to find a place to sit near his gate, and he waited to board his flight to Minneapolis. Shortly before scheduled boarding time, it was announced that the flight to Minnesota had been delayed by unspecified weather problems. Bond made a quick report of the delay to "Universal Exports," and was told, in code, to get to Minneapolis as soon as he could. Bond returned to his seat to find it occupied. Bond walked around for fifteen minutes until he found another.

Bond arrived in Minnesota about four hours later than scheduled. He was tired, but he had not slept.

After Bond cleared Customs and collected his luggage, a voice asked him,"You need a car, Mister?"

Bond recognized the voice at once and turned to face the speaker. "Felix! How are you?"

"Fine, just fine. And you're looking well. Hey, I've got a car waiting out front." Leiter's hasty tone made it clear that time was short and that small talk could wait. Bond accompanied Leiter out the doors and to a waiting sedan. The driver abruptly bounded out of the car, took Bond's luggage, stowed the luggage in the trunk of the car, and bounded back into the driver's seat. Seconds later, the car pulled away from the curb.

Leiter gestured at the driver. "Jonas is all right. We can talk, James."

"What in the devil is going on, Felix? I thought that I was going to be met by someone from the FBI, not the CIA."

"Well, you got me instead. Probably because I'm the one who recommended you to the FBI for this hare-brained idea. You'll meet with the FBI later; a fellow named Vandenberg is running the operation."

"I think, Felix," Bond growled in irritation, "that you ought to tell me all about this hare-brained idea. What have you gotten me into?"

"There's not much I can tell you. But let me ask this: Do you know Joshua Tipton?"

"No."

"Tipton's quite a fellow; keeps a low profile." Leiter took a deep breath. "Tipton's a professional problem solver. You got a problem, he'll solve it for you. Is there something valuable you want to acquire? He'll find out how you can acquire it. Want to get out of a contract without getting sued? Joshua Tipton knows ways to do that. Got a lot of money riding on a fight or a horse race? Tipton can either make sure you'll win or make sure you won't lose your shirt." Leiter's voice became sinister: "Is there a person who's making your life miserable? Joshua Tipton can make it so that person won't bother you anymore."

"It doesn't sound to me like this Tipton fellow is engaged in an honest, reputable business," Bond observed.

"That must be some of your 'British understatement,' James," Leiter chuckled. "Organized crime organizations love Tipton. They _love_ the guy. He solves their problems without them getting their hands dirty. The FBI has been building a case against Tipton for over three years now."

"This sounds like a domestic concern. So why is the CIA involved? And more to the point, why am I involved?"

"You are involved, James, because we have an unprecedented opportunity; and you are quite literally the only man on Earth who can help us pull it off."

Leiter reached into a breast pocket of his shirt, pulled out a photograph, and handed the photo to Bond.

"This is Tipton. Does he look familiar?"

Bond was momentarily stunned. Tipton looked exactly like Bond, but with a beard.


	4. Chapter 4

Bond and Leiter were driven to a posh Minneapolis hotel a few minutes away from the airport. Once out of the car, Bond picked up his luggage and turned to enter the hotel, but saw that Leiter was making no move to follow. After making a quick check to be sure no one was around, Bond asked, "Are you coming, Felix?"

"No. Get some sleep, James. Someone will give you a full briefing in the morning."

"Is there any reason you can't brief me right now?" Bond wondered.

"We're not authorized to brief you now. We should get authorization pretty soon, though."

"What do you mean, you're not authorized to brief me now?"

"It's a long story. Suffice it to say that this whole operation was put together very quickly, and considering what players are involved and what things are at stake, some people in the Bureau are understandably nervous. As we speak, they are debating whether to let the plan move forward. We think they will eventually decide to go forward. We will let you know when we have the green light."

"And when do you think that will be?"

"We'll come wake you at four A.M.," Leiter said, as he opened a door to the car and climbed inside.

Bond could see Leiter wasn't joking.

After Leiter left, Bond checked in and quickly readied himself for bed. Bond supposed that the "operation" being debated involved having a phony beard slapped on Bond, and Bond pretending to be this Tipton fellow. Beyond that, he didn't know more, and he decided it was not worthwhile to speculate. _It's better to get some sleep,_ he decided.

Bond slept quite well. It was four in the morning before he knew it. He rose when he heard a knocking at his door. Bond opened the door and found Leiter, accompanied by a bright-eyed FBI agent.

"Get your trousers on, right now, James. We're going."

Moments later, Leiter and Bond entered a waiting car and drove away from the hotel, leaving the bright-eyed FBI agent behind, presumably to pack up Bond's things and to pay the bill.

"Where are we going, Felix?" Bond yawned. "Someplace where they have coffee, I hope."

"We're on our way back to the airport, James. We just heard: the FBI has officially been given the green light. So there are some people you have to meet. And I have some distressing news. It has been confirmed: Tipton is supposed to be arriving here just after eight o'clock. So we have _less_ time than we'd thought."

"You probably should have let me at least have a shower and a shave," Bond yawned and rubbed his chin. "Oh, you weren't expecting me to grow a beard overnight, were you?"

Leiter snickered. "You can get a shower and a shave at the airport. We're having some clothes brought in for you, too. And don't worry about the beard; we've got someone who will help you with that. What you do have to worry about is that classy voice of yours that identifies you as being from the British Isles and that makes all the women go tingly. But we've got someone who will help you with that, too."

"Please Felix," Bond mockingly pleaded, "You won't take away my tingly voice, will you?"

At the airport, Bond was directed to a secure area. There was a bathroom where he could shower and shave, just as Leiter had said.

And there was plenty of coffee.

Minnesotans, Bond deduced, must like their coffee black. Cream and sugar were in short supply. Bond made do. There was a plate of doughnuts next to the coffee, but Bond decided he wasn't hungry.

Bond took a seat at a table in the center of the room. Leiter sat opposite Bond, and placed a manila file folder on the table.

"All right, here's the story." Leiter cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee. "As you know, you've gotten tapped here because you bear a striking resemblance to Joshua Tipton. This all started when a friend of mine in the FBI showed me Tipton's photograph a few months ago, I thought it was _your_ picture; and I blurted out, 'Hey, I know that guy!' Well, that was a mistake on my part, but it got the ball rolling. That's how the FBI found out that there was a Tipton look-alike who worked for British Intelligence. A Tipton look-alike who knew how to handle himself under cover."

"Perhaps you can explain to me, Felix, why it should come to pass that British Intelligence would agree to cooperate with the American FBI."

"You're just repaying a debt. We did you guys a big favor on that Orlov incident, didn't we?"

"You did; but that means we owe _the CIA_ , not the FBI."

"You owe _Uncle Sam_ ," Leiter explained. "And Uncle Sam decided that you can be square by helping out the Feds."

"And so, how do I help out the Feds?"

"The man in charge of this little venture is named Vandenberg, Lamont Vandenberg, he goes by 'Lee.' You'll be meeting him shortly, and he'll fill you in on the details. But here's the big picture: Tipton is arriving on a flight from Montreal this morning. We think he is on his way to meet someone who is of great interest to the FBI. The Feds found out about this meeting a little more than two days ago. Someone suggested that you might be able to double for Tipton, and an inquiry was made into your whereabouts. When the Feds learned that you were in Canada, practically in their backyard, this plan was hastily hatched."

"So I'm going to be Tipton. Who is it that I'll be meeting?"

"Sig Stamp."

"Never heard of him."

"Stamp is, shall we say, not a very nice man. He deals in all sorts of awful things. Narcotics, guns, even slaves. Imagine that: a slave trade in the Twentieth Century! The FBI wants to put Stamp out of business, but that is far easier said than done. Well, a couple of days ago, the FBI learned that Sig Stamp has a 'problem' of some kind, and that Stamp has contacted professional problem-solver Joshua Tipton for help."

"What sort of problem?"

"We don't know. That's why we're going to have you impersonate Tipton, meet with Stamp, and find out what Stamp has in mind."

"Has Tipton ever met Stamp?"

"Never. Vandenberg says the Bureau is certain of that."

Bond loosed a sigh. "This is a bad idea, Felix. For one thing, I get almost no time to prepare for this masquerade. Suppose they start asking me about my family, or how many kids I have, or my wife's birthday? It would be way too easy for me to be found out."

Leiter pulled a typed sheet from the file folder and slid it to Bond. "Here is some information about Tipton. Memorize it if you can. Vandenberg thinks Stamp doesn't know very much about Tipton, except his reputation and that he's a Georgia man and maybe what he looks like. Chances are this sheet holds more information about Tipton than Stamp knows."

Bond scanned the page. There wasn't much information there. Tipton's birth date, birthplace, parents, siblings, and some of his addresses were listed. Tipton had a wife named Dolores who went by the name of "Dee," and the two of them had no kids. Tipton owned a bloodhount named Sport.

Bond thought he could commit this all to memory if he were given ten minutes.

Included on the page was a sample of Tipton's signature. Bond thought he could imitate it well enough without much practice.

"You may have to improvise, James." Leiter grinned. "I know you're good at that. Besides, personal information like this is probably not what is going to be of interest to Stamp. He'll be interested in other things; things that you'll be carrying with you."

"Like what? And how do I acquire these other things that Stamp will find of interest?"

"Stamp, or his people, will almost certainly want to examine Tipton's passport, driver's license, bank cards, business cards, credit cards, membership cards, and things like that. And as for how we'll acquire them: Tipton is bringing them to us himself, at about eight o'clock this morning, from Montreal." Leiter grinned. "We won't have to gin up any phony identification for you; you'll use the real things. Stamp's people are _really_ good at spotting false credentials. Well, your credentials won't be false. The only thing that will be false is you."


	5. Chapter 5

Bond committed to memory as much as he could about Tipton. Leiter quizzed him and found that Bond did quite well. Leiter also went over what sorts of things Bond ought to expect to happen and what sorts of things that shouldn't be much worry.

The meeting with Stamp was expected to be very brief. Whatever problem Stamp had, Bond was to agree to solve it. Because Tipton was known to have a reservation at a local hotel, it was expected that Bond would be taken to that hotel after the meeting was concluded. Bond would then contact Vandenberg at a particular telephone number. Bond would let Vandenberg know where he was. Then the FBI would come and get Bond, and Bond would be debriefed.

And that would be the end of Bond's mission.

"When I call Vandenberg, do I have to give him a code word to let him know that it's safe to come get me?" Bond asked.

"This is the _FBI_ you're working with, James, not the CIA," Leiter smiled. "They aren't as much into the cloak-and-dagger stuff as we are. I suppose they figure that, if you call, it must be safe. Besides, Stamp would have no reason to keep tabs on you after he lets you go."

Presently the door to the room opened, and Lee Vandenberg entered. Leiter introduced Vandenberg as the FBI agent in charge of the operation. "Lamont Vandenberg," growled Vandenberg, extending his hand. Bond took Vandenberg's hand and shook it; Bond thought he was shaking hands with a bear trap. "Nice to meet you, Bond. Thank you for your help."

"Happy to help your Uncle Sam," Bond said, covertly flexing his right hand to try to overcome the aftereffects of Vandenberg's grip.

Vandenberg handed a photograph to Bond showing a sixty-ish professional man in a business suit. "That's Stamp," Leiter explained.

"Whom Tipton has never met," Bond remarked. "I shall have to pretend I don't recognize him when I meet him."

Vandenberg grunted in approval. "That's right, Bond. You cannot behave as if you know him." Vandenberg, Bond noted, preferred to speak in clipped sentences. "I've lined up some people to meet with you, Bond. When they're done, we'll talk."

Vandenberg studied Bond's face. "Do you think there's a good resemblance?" Bond inquired.

"I'll let you know after I see you with a beard."

And Vandenberg turned and left.

Minutes later, Charlotte arrived and gave Bond a crash course in speaking like a man from Atlanta. Leiter left Charlotte and Bond alone.

As Charlotte departed, an FBI agent arrived with some clothing. Bond was told to shave as well as shower. Bond quickly shaved and showered and got dressed. The clothes were not his style, not especially fashionable. _Perhaps Tipton is not a fashionable man,_ Bond supposed.

The agent who brought Bond the clothing mentioned in passing that Bond was slightly taller than Tipton. "About two inches," said the agent. "Shouldn't be noticeable. One piece of good news is this: you and Tipton are built about the same up here," the agent patted his own chest and shoulders, "so if Tipton is wearing a jacket, it ought to fit you."

Not long after that, Madeline arrived and began to work her magic.

After Bond was bearded, Vandenberg and some of his assistants came to inspect the work. They reached a verdict fairly quickly.

"Fantastic!" one of Vandenberg's assistants exclaimed. "You look exactly like Tipton! Exactly!" The other assistants were equally amazed.

Leiter beamed. "I told you. He's a perfect double, isn't he?"

"So y'all think I'm a hansum fellah?" Bond drawled, trying out his Georgia accent.

One of Vandenberg's men spoke up. "Tipton's voice is a little higher than that, Mr. Bond; but I must say your accent is pretty good."

"Whah, thank ya kindleh," Bond drawled smoothly, his voice slightly higher than before. "Maybe we all gunna have us a nahce dinnah when this is all ovah?"

Vandenberg looked at his assistants to see whether they had further comments about Bond's voice or accent. Seeing none, Vandenberg pronounced his judgment: "Good. Damn good."

Vandenberg and his men briefed Bond on his mission and what to expect. The briefing was, as the word implies, brief; and most of it reiterated what Leiter had already said. The FBI didn't have any evidence as to why Stamp might want to meet Tipton. Bond was going to have to improvise. Chances are that Bond would be doing a lot of listening, and not much talking. Bond would agree to solve whatever problem Stamp had, and that would pretty much be all there was to it.

 _It's bloody obvious that this mission has been put together on_ very _short notice,_ Bond thought.

Two of the assistants briefed Bond about Tipton's mannerisms.

"He doesn't smoke or drink," one of the assistants said.

"Da-yamn," Bond commented, stretching the word "damn" to two syllables, as Charlotte had taught him.

"And James," Leiter jumped in, "Stamp doesn't have any pretty girls working for him. The women he employs are 'all-business,' and are very good at what they do. Most of those closest to Stamp are men."

 _So romance is out of the question on this mission; but that's no surprise._

The assistants gave Bond a few more pointers. Tipton likes to pick his nose, they said, and they went into some detail as to Tipton's preferred technique. Tipton sometimes sticks out his jaw, especially when he's nervous. Tipton tends to put his hand on the back of his head when he's thinking. Tipton smiles a lot, but rarely shows his teeth. Tipton seldom laughs; but when he does laugh, he howls.

The assistants asked if Bond had any questions.

"Not for you fellows, thanks." Bond said respectfully, reverting to his normal mode of speech. "Agent Vandenberg, answer a question for me if you will."

"If I can, I will."

"I've been told you've been trying to build a case against Tipton for a few years now."

"That's true."

"If you arrest him, hold him without warrant or charge, take his identification credentials, and have someone impersonate him, won't that have an adverse effect upon the case your're trying to build against him?"

With a wave, Vandenberg dismissed all of his assistants, so that only he, Leiter and Bond were in the room. "Yes. It will. But right now, the case against Tipton is thin. We are willing to give up our case against Tipton."

"Why?"

"It's more important for you take Tipton's place and meet with Stamp." Vandenberg pursed his lips. "Stamp knows that the FBI is after him. Stamp almost certainly knows we're getting ready to take action against him. He might even know that we've secured some search warrants and arrest warrants, and that we could come for him at any time. We think he has at least one contact in the Bureau."

"A mole?"

"Yes. Maybe more than one. And we suspect we have a good idea as to what Stamp's 'problem' is. We don't know for sure. Stamp's got some serious trouble in lots of places: the Caribbean, Mexico, Boston, Miami. But Stamp's handled problems like those in the past without anyone's help. So we think those aren't why Stamp wants to see Tipton."

"So what do you think _is_ Stamp's 'problem?'"

"Stamp wants Tipton's help to stop the FBI."

Bond wasn't following: "Stop you? How could Tipton possibly stop you from doing your job?"

Vandenberg shook his head. "Tipton may be only one man, but he's very resourceful. _Very_ resourceful. Maybe he won't stop us. Maybe he'll just hurt us. Hurt us so bad that it will take years to recover."

"Hurt you, how?"

"Stamp might ask Tipton to destroy our investigative tools. Or to expose our informants. Or destroy evidence. Or blackmail judges. Tipton has the capability of doing all of those. It could even be worse than that. Stamp might use Tipton to threaten our agents or their families. Maybe even to have agents murdered." Vandenberg cleared his throat. "If Tipton joins forces with Stamp, that means trouble. It might be a bloodbath."

"Well," Bond muttered in acknowledgment. _The FBI is really worried._

"So right now, getting Stamp is bigger than getting Tipton. Preventing Stamp and Tipton from teaming up is more important. And preserving the integrity of the Bureau is even more important than that. With some luck, Bond, you'll help us find what Stamp is up to. You might even help us find the moles in the Bureau."

A young man, wearing the uniform of a Customs officer, opened the door to the room and knocked on the door frame.

"Sirs, Tipton's flight has just landed."


	6. Chapter 6

Joshua Tipton strode up to Customs and presented his passport to a lanky red-headed customs agent.

"Where do you live, Mr. Tipton?" asked the customs agent, looking at the passport.

"Atlanta, Georgia." Tipton spoke with a barely noticeable Georgia twang.

"Is there anything you wish to tell me, anything to declare?"

"No."

"Will you be staying in Minnesota, sir?"

"Yes, for one night."

"What brings you to Minnesota, Mr. Tipton?"

"Business." Tipton pronounced the word like a Northerner. Many of his Atlanta buddies would have called it "bidness."

"What is your business?"

"Insurance." Tipton emphasized the first syllable, as many Southerners do.

"And what were you doing in Montreal?"

"I have just returned from Europe, and passed through Canada on my way back."

The red-headed customs agent looked at Tipton's passport. "Where did you go in Europe?"

Tipton was becoming impatient. He wondered why there were so many questions and why this agent was being so difficult. "Italy. Look, is there a problem?"

The agent turned to his left and beckoned to someone unseen, then looked Tipton in the eye. "Sir, I don't often see too many Atlanta men flying from Italy to Minneapolis in order to sell insurance."

Tipton broke out into a folksy smile. "Well, when you put it _that_ way, it does sound a bit strange, dunnit?"

The agent did not smile. A tall, uniformed officer approached and stood next to the red-headed agent. The red-headed agent lowered his eyes and spoke: "Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to accompany this officer to an interview room."

Tipton's smile evaporated. "Of course. But how long will this take? I have to meet a client shortly."

"I don't know, sir."

"This way, sir," said the tall officer, taking hold of Tipton's passport and directing him to the interview room.

The door to the interview room was opened for him, and Tipton entered the room.

Two other uniformed officers were waiting in the interview room. An older officer, seated at a table, took Tipton's passport and began to examine it. A younger officer standing next to the table politely ordered Tipton to take off his jacket and empty his pockets. Tipton jutted out his lower lip, but he complied without complaint, slipping off his jacket and draping it over a chair. He knew arguing and asserting his rights would do no good. Better to cooperate, and he'd soon be let go. He knew he wasn't carrying anything that would give Customs cause to hold him.

As Tipton emptied his pockets, he noticed two other uniformed officers were standing behind him, and the door to the room was closed. He told himself to play it cool. He gingerly placed his wallet on the table in front of the officer examining his passport. He was ordered to remove his watch and lay it on the table, and he complied.

The officer examining the passport laid it on the table out of Tipton's reach, and began looking through Tipton's wallet. He asked, "Did you bring any luggage from Italy or Canada, sir?"

"Yes, one suitcase, which I packed in Italy."

"A green suitcase, bearing a tag with the name of 'Tipton' on it?"

"Yes." Tipton realized at once that his luggage had been searched. But that was nothing to worry about, there was nothing incriminating there. "May I ask what is the problem?"

The officer examining the wallet looked up at Tipton. "It is a serious crime to lie to U.S. Customs, Mr. Williams."

Tipton was momentarily stunned. "Whoa, right there," he stammered with a nervous smile. "Mah name ain't Williams."

In an instant, Tipton found himself between the officers who had stood behind him, and he felt himself being forcibly held and handcuffed. Tipton's smile disappeared at once. "You're under arrest, Mr. Williams," announced the officer at the table.

While still protesting but not resisting, Tipton was hauled out of the interview room. All four officers escorted Tipton to where he needed to go. Tipton's wallet, watch, and passport remained on the table, and his jacket remained draped on the chair.

A back door to the interview room opened, and Vandenberg, Bond, and Leiter entered.

"Poor fellow," Bond remarked. "A simple case of mistaken identity. Where's he off to?"

"Detention," Vandenberg answered. "Things will all get sorted out eventually. But it may take a day or two. Maybe even longer than that. We'll give him a receipt for all the things we've taken from him. Make him think they're just being held in storage."

"I noticed that Tipton didn't speak with much of an accent." Bond looked at Vandenberg.

Vandenberg nodded. "He reverts to it when he's trying to be friendly. We expect he'll want to be friendly with Stamp. Don't worry, Bond. You won't be doing much talking. You'll be _listening_ to Stamp. And you'll be _remembering_ everything he says. You should be in and out within about an hour. And after your meeting is over, you'll contact us. And you'll be debriefed."

"And then you can get back home to Jolly Old England," Leiter grinned.


	7. Chapter 7

Bond familiarized himself with Tipton's passport and the contents of Tipton's wallet. He slipped Tipton's watch onto his wrist. He tried on Tipton's jacket. The sleeves were about half an inch too short, but otherwise the fit was good. Bond placed the passport and wallet into Tipton's jacket.

"Tipton's married. Do I need a wedding ring?" Bond wondered.

"Tipton doesn't wear one," Vandenberg answered. "The only jewelry he wears is his watch."

One of Vandenberg's men briefed Bond on the contents of Tipton's suitcase, which seemed to be totally ordinary.

"Are you ready, Bond?" Vandenberg asked. "Ready to meet Stamp?"

"Yes."

Vandenberg extended his hand. "Good luck, then." Bond took Vandenberg's hand and was pleasantly surprised to find his grip to be less vice-like. "We'll be waiting for your call, Bond. Baggage claim is to the left, down the steps."

Bond left the room and walked casually to the baggage claim area. Tipton's green suitcase was waiting for him. Bond picked up the suitcase and headed for the door. Vandenberg had told Bond that Stamp would almost certainly have sent a driver for Tipton, but Bond saw no one who looked like a driver and who seemed to be waiting for him.

Bond exited the door and stepped into the sunlight. He was temporarily blinded.

"Mr. Tipton?"

Shading his eyes with his hand, Bond turned to face a burly man. The man had a face like someone who had spent some time in the boxing ring.

"Yeah?"

"Come with me, Mr. Tipton, I have a car waiting for you."

The burly man abruptly took the suitcase from Bond's hand, and led Bond to a modest sedan. After stowing the suitcase in the trunk, the burly man got in the car behind the wheel, and off they went.

Neither Bond nor the burly driver attempted to make conversation.

The trip was longer than Bond had expected. The driver chose to take residential roads rather than highways, and on a couple of occasions, seemed to drive in circles. Bond surmised the driver was concerned about being followed, and he was taking precautions. One of Vandenberg's men had mentioned that Stamp's men were adept at spotting tails.

The car drove to the northern suburbs, and into a wealthy residential neighborhood. Eventually the car turned onto a private tree-lined road. A minute later, the car pulled up to the front door of a mansion that resembled, of all things, an English castle. Even the front door looked like it belonged on a castle; it was broad and trimmed with iron.

A dog began barking viciously, and although Bond could hear the dog, he could not see it.

An unsmiling bald man stepped from the front door and opened the car door for Bond. Bond got out of the car and stretched his legs. He turned in the direction of the barking and spied the dog, a German shepherd, held in a pen near the front door.

"Go this way," the bald man ordered, directing Bond not to the front door but to a nearby smaller door, without so much as a "please." Bond did as he was told.

Once Bond moved indoors, the barking of the dog became less frequent, then it stopped. The bald man brusquely ordered Bond to hand over his passport and wallet. Bond did so, noticing that his movements were being carefully watched by at least two other men standing in corners of the room. The postures of these other men indicated that they were armed.

As the bald man scrutinized the passport, a smaller man with gray hair came into the room and stood next to the bald man. The bald man handed the gray-haired man the passport, and began scrutinizing the contents of the wallet. He then handed the wallet to the gray-haired man, and faced Bond. The gray-haired man examined the passport carefully.

The bald man barked at Bond, "Turn around!" Bond did. He was frisked.

"Take off your shoes!" Bond complied. The bald man examined the shoes and returned them to Bond, who slipped the shoes on.

"Unbutton your shirt!" Bond once again did as he was told without complaint, and the bald man checked Bond's chest, presumably for any devices that might be used for listening or tracking or recording.

"Okay. Button up."

"Ya want me to drop mah pants next, do ya?" Bond drawled, raising an eyebrow and offering the bald man a contemptuous smirk intended to challenge his masculinity.

The bald man glared at Bond. Bond glared right back, still smirking. The bald man decided to put an end to the glaring contest, and he turned to the gray-haired man. "What do you think, Jerry?"

The gray-hared man hefted the passport and wallet. "I say these look pretty good. But I'd like to take them to my office for a closer look."

The bald man nodded, then turned to Bond. "Come on."

Bond was led out of the room, and into a corridor. He was directed down the corridor to a room with an imposing wooden door. The bald man knocked on the door, and then, without waiting for a response, opened it for Bond. When the bald man made no movement to enter the room, Bond took his cue. Bond entered the room, and the door was promptly closed behind him.

It first seemed as though the room was empty, but for three chairs, a wooden desk, and a sofa. _Looks like a sparsely furnished office,_ Bond thought. Bond's attention was drawn to his right, to the distinct sound of ice clinking in a glass. Bond turned, and there stood a distinguished gentleman, dressed in a charcoal suit and wearing a burgundy tie, fixing himself a drink at a bar in the wall. Bond recognized the man as the man in the photograph Vandenberg had shown to Bond.

Bond decided to make the first move. "Mr. Stamp, Ah presume?"

Stamp responded in kind. "Mr. Tipton, I presume?"

"Ah'm pleased to meechah."

"You want something to drink, Tipton?"

Though it struck Bond as being a little early in the day for a drink, he thought a drink would be welcome. But he knew that the real Tipton did not drink, and possibly Stamp knew that as well. "Thank ya kindleh, no," Bond drawled. "But please, go aheed yuhseff."

Stamp took a sip from his drink and began to sidle away from the bar. He made no effort to approach Bond to shake his hand. Instead, Stamp walked casually to the desk, and seated himself upon it. As Stamp made himself comfortable, he exposed a holster under his jacket. The exposure of the holster was casual, but Bond was certain it was also intentional.

There were a few seconds of silence.

Stamp took another sip from his glass. "Did you have a good flight into Minneapolis?"

Bond jutted out his lower lip, as he had seen Tipton do under questioning. "Not bad."

Another few seconds of silence.

"Was the flight from Europe okay?"

"Also not bad. Couldn't sleep much, though. Some noisy children on the plane."

Stamp smiled politely, a smile that Bond realized was wholly artificial. "You have any kids, Tipton?"

"Nope." _He's testing me. I suppose he'll ask me about my bloodhound next._

Another few seconds of silence. Stamp looked as though he were about to make more small talk, when there was a knock at the door, and Jerry, the gray-haired man Bond had seen earlier, strode through the door and up to Stamp. Jerry handed Stamp the passport and wallet and spoke to Stamp in a voice so low that Bond could not make out a single word.

 _Whatever Jerry is telling Stamp, my life depends upon it._

"All right, Jerry, thanks," Stamp said, dismissing the gray-haired man, who promptly left the room.

Stamp hefted the passport and wallet in one hand, then slid his hindquarters off the desk and walked up to Bond. Bond took the passport and wallet from Stamp and stowed them in his jacket. "Jerreh must be pretteh at good spottin' fakes," Bond remarked.

"He's the best there is." Stamp offered his right hand. "I'm Sig Stamp, Mr. Tipton, and I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance."


	8. Chapter 8

Stamp invited Bond to sit in front of the desk while Stamp sat behind the desk. Bond did so. Stamp again offered a drink, which Bond again politely declined.

"Mr. Tipton," Stamp said, in a getting-down-to-business voice, "I hear you know how to solve peoples' problems."

"Ya heard rahght," Bond said simply.

"That's good, because I have a problem that I'd like to have you solve for me."

"May Ah ask, what kinda problem?"

"First, tell me how much you charge to solve problems."

"It depends on the problem. Some are hardah problems to solve, and cost mo'."

Stamp smirked. "Well, this is a hard problem, all right. What would be a ballpark rate for a 'hard' problem, Tipton? What would be your rate for the hardest problem you've ever had to solve, eh?"

Bond hadn't been briefed about how much Tipton would demand. Bond improvised, and decided to give Stamp a shock. _If this fellow is thinking about messing with the FBI, maybe it would be nice to make him think twice._

"Wayyyl, Ah once had a feller tell me he'd pay me fo' million dollahs to solve one o' his problems."

Stamp was shocked all right. His face went blank and it took him several seconds to recover. "That must have been one doozy of a problem," Stamp said eventually.

"It was. Pity Ah cain't talk about it. Ah can tell ya that he only paid me a tenth o' that, and stiffed me on the rest. Not a gentlemanleh thing to do, now, was it?"

"I'll pay you seven hundred fifty thousand dollars, American, Mr. Tipton, in cash or any way you desire," Stamp announced, "if you agree to help me with _my_ problem."

Now it was Bond's turn to be shocked. _He wouldn't pay anyone_ that _much, would he? Really?_

Bond kept his countenance and jutted out his lower lip. "Ah'm listenin'."

"I want you to be my guest here for a few days. You don't have anyplace you need to be in the next couple of weeks, do you?"

 _Uh-oh_ , Bond thought. Vandenberg had been so certain that Stamp would talk to Bond and then let him leave; Bond would be in and out within an hour, Vandenberg had said. Apparently Stamp had different plans.

"Ah do, as a mattah o' fact."

Stamp smiled insincerely. "Whatever appointments you've got for the next two to three weeks, I want you to break them. If you need to telephone anyone, I'll let you use my telephone. If you need to wire anyone, one of my assistants will help you send a telegram. Considering how much money I'm willing to pay you, Tipton, I don't believe this demand to be out of line; do you?"

Bond tried to think of an appointment he simply _had_ to keep. Tipton's wife's birthday? That was no good, her birthday was two months away. Tipton's anniversary? No, that was just last month.

"Mr. Stamp, Ah do appreciate what you're saying, Ah really do? But Ah do have other pending commitments in the next few days that Ah cannot igno'. Now, Ah _might_ be inclahned to—"

"I'll pay you three hundred fifty thousand dollars today," Stamp interrupted. "The balance when the job is done. If you want that three hundred and fifty grand in bills of varying denominations, I'll have them for you in an hour. If you want the money deposited into a safe account, I'll do that right now. If you want the money in any other fashion, I'm ready to accommodate you." Stamp stood up behind the desk and stared down at Bond. "I'm quite determined to get your help."

Bond was in trouble, all right. Bond thought it likely that Tipton would never turn down an offer so large; if Bond said no, it would be suspicious as hell. Bond quietly cursed Vandenberg; never once did Vandenberg or his people discuss any backup plans or how long they would wait before Bond would be considered overdue. Sure, this little undercover operation was put together on a short timeline, but these oversights were serious.

"Something bothering you about my _very generous_ offer, Tipton?" Stamp prompted.

"Jus' wonderin'," Bond drawled, rubbing the back of his head with his hand, "what's the catch?"

"No catch."

"Ah doubt that; Ah'm as curious as can be about yo' problem," Bond drawled. "It must be 'a doozy,' as y'all say. Now, there ain't no way Ah'm gonna take a penneh from ya, if Ah cain't delivah. So why doan y'all tell me what ya got in mind?"

Stamp stared at Bond for a moment, then nodded in apparent agreement that the request was reasonable. Stamp pulled some keys from his pocket and sat back down behind his desk. He used a key to open a locked drawer on his desk, then he withdrew from the drawer a large manila envelope. Stamp opened the envelope and fished out a photograph, and then slid the photograph over to Bond, face down. "This is why I'm determined to have you help me," Stamp said simply.

Bond turned over the photograph. It was a picture of him.


	9. Chapter 9

"Well, Ah'll be damned," Bond stammered. "He looks just lahk me, 'cept after a shave!" Bond gently rubbed his phony beard.

"You know that man?"

"No. Could be mah twin brothah, 'cept Ah doan have no twin brothah."

"He's British Secret Service, we think. You now see why I'm determined to have help from _you_ , Tipton. I want you to impersonate this man. You already look a lot like him. We give you a shave, maybe arrange your hair a little differently, you ought to be able to pass."

 _I wonder who told Stamp that I'm with the British Secret Service,_ Bond thought. _The Secret Service hardly ever makes its way to Minnesota._

"He's a Limey, huh?" Bond decided to try to impersonate a Georgia man doing a bad Cockney accent: "Pardon me, Govnah! 'Ave you got a foyvah?" Bond smiled at how comical he sounded.

Stamp was unamused. "We've got someone who can help you with your accent. Hopefully you won't have to say too much. Maybe you can plead laryngitis."

Bond turned serious. "What'd this fellah do to ya?"

"Nothing. He's not the problem." Stamp fished another photograph from the envelope and slid it over to Bond. "This dude is the problem."

Bond looked at the photograph. It was Double-Oh-Four, one of the newer Double-Oh men.

 _Someone's been giving Stamp information about my organization._

Bond pretended to be nonplussed. "And who's he?"

"British Secret Service, serves with the man you'll be impersonating. All you have to do, Tipton, is make contact with this man, who will recognize you as a colleague of his. You will then send this man to a place where I tell you to send him, and someone else will do the rest."

So, Stamp's "problem" was Double-Oh-Four. And he wanted Tipton to impersonate Double-Oh-Seven, to lure Double-Oh-Four into a fatal trap.

 _Stamp would pay $750,000 for_ that _?_ There didn't seem to be much risk. Even if Double-O-Four were to catch on that the man he met was an imposter, there was little chance the imposter would be hurt or killed. The imposter might be led on, or tricked, or fed false intelligence, or maybe captured and interrogated. But the risk wasn't much beyond that.

It didn't add up.

 _But maybe Stamp doesn't know how things work in the intelligence community?_

Bond pointed to Double-Oh-Four's picture. "What'd _he_ do to ya?"

"Never mind about that. All you have to do is get this guy to trust you, and get him into a vulnerable position; we fix him right up, and you get seven hundred and fifty thousand bucks. Easy money."

"Lahk hell, _easy_ ," Bond said, caustically. "Trickin' local cops is one thing, in mah experience. Trickin' the Feds is a little toughah. But trickin' intelligence people? That's anothah ball game altogethah. Ah've run inta a couple o' them, and they're a suspicious group. Hard ta fool 'em; they're always on the lookout for trickereh."

Stamp was unshaken. "A man of your reputation, you ought to be able to pull this off. Besides, we think these men know each other, but they don't know each other all that well."

 _True enough,_ Bond thought. _I wonder how Stamp learned that?_

"He ought to know you on sight," Stamp continued. "He'll probably know that your name is Bond. You ought to be able to get his trust fairly easily."

"Bond, ya say?"

"Bond is the name of the man you'll be doubling."

Bond nodded, and rubbed the back of his head as he pretended to think about Stamp's proposal. What Bond was really thinking, though, was that M should have told him about Stamp, especially since one of the Double-Ohs was involved with Stamp. The FBI certainly would have told M the identity of the target of their operation, wouldn't they? _Why did M withhold this from me?_ The answer seemed inescapable. _The FBI didn't tell M the whole story._

Bond tried to put those questions aside. For the time being, his course of action was clear.

"That kinda moneh is just too hard to pass up," Bond grinned. "And Ah can tell you're not a man who takes 'No' for an anssah, so yeah, Ah'll impersonate this Limey. Just show me the cash and we got a deal."

Stamp seemed pleased. "I'll have the cash brought in."

Bond looked at his own photo, then showed it to Stamp. "Am Ah right to assume that you will take the real fellah out of the pitchah?"

"Don't worry about that. We know where the real guy is, and he's not going to give us any trouble."


	10. Chapter 10

Bond sat on the couch while Stamp talked quietly with two of his men. Ostensibly, Bond was trying to make a list of all pending appointments that he would have to cancel in order to do this job for Stamp. In reality, Bond was trying to figure out a way to get out of the mess he was in.

The American FBI had given Bond no tracking device, no hidden weapons, no emergency plan, no way to send out a distress signal. Bond had memorized Vandenberg's telephone number, but he couldn't risk calling that number. Bond would be using Stamp's telephone, and who knows who might be listening in on the call?

If a few hours had passed and Bond had failed to call Vandenberg as planned, then Vandenberg would know that something went wrong. But Bond doubted that Vandenberg could arrange any rescue attempt on short notice. It would be more likely, wouldn't it, that Vandenberg would assume that Bond had been found out, and killed?

One possibility would be to make a break for it. But Stamp's security was undoubtedly formidable, and Bond thought it probable that he would be caught or killed before getting too far. Bond also suspected that there were more dogs on the premises than the one he'd seen by the front door. Those dogs could be counted upon to be mean, and to be able to run faster than Bond.

Another possibility would be to simply play along. Bond could insist upon shaving himself, and remove the false beard in the privacy of a bathroom. Bond could then work very hard to pretend to learn how to impersonate himself. In order to train him to be Bond, Stamp's people would have to tell him a lot about their organization and sources. So this "play along" strategy had some appeal, in that it might yield very valuable intelligence benefits not only for the FBI, but also for the CIA and for Her Majesty's Secret Service.

But there was a problem.

Stamp had boasted. "We know where the real guy is." That boast was clearly wrong, since Stamp did not realize that the real Bond was only ten feet away. Yet Bond could not breathe easy. What Stamp probably _meant_ was that his people were following Bond's trail. Suppose they were? And suppose they had tracked him to Minneapolis, Minnesota?

Suppose they told Stamp that Bond and Tipton arrived in Minneapolis less than 24 hours apart?

That would be too much of a coincidence for Stamp to ignore.

Bond had been his usual careful self in Vancouver, but he didn't think he was being tailed, and he made no deliberate effort to shake any tail. True, the crowd at the Vancouver airport would have given Bond a great deal of cover and would have made him hard to spot. But if there was a tail, wouldn't he have been watching the passengers board the Toronto flight, and wouldn't he have realized that Bond was not among them?

 _Maybe. And maybe he'd suspect that I had left the airport. Maybe he wondered whether I had actually boarded a different flight. It might take him quite a while, but if the tail is any good, he'll eventually figure out what happened. And when he reports to Stamp, I'm cooked._

Bond decided that his best option was to call for help, without making it look like he was calling for help.

But call who? He couldn't call Vandenberg. For all Bond knew, Vandenberg would be careless enough to blurt out, "Well, Bond, what did you find out?" And the game would be up.

He considered calling "Mr. Abercrombie" at "Universal Exports," which ought to put him in contact with M. But in order to get M, Bond would have to identify himself in code, which would be suspicious in itself. Add to that, M had a nasty habit of insisting upon being the first person to speak when he came on the line. If M started the conversation with a testy, "Double-Oh-Seven, you _do_ know it is the middle of the night here, don't you?", the game would be up.

He knew a few other telephone numbers for "Universal Exports" by heart, but the personnel answering those calls were kept in the dark about almost everything. This wasn't a sanctioned, coded Secret Service operation, so Bond couldn't give them any coded messages that would be of any use or that would set off any alarms. He'd have to say straight out who he was, that he was in trouble, and that he needed help. And the game would be up.

 _Besides, if Stamp knows about two British Intelligence agents, he might know that Universal Exports is a front for British Intelligence._

Best of all would be to call Felix Leiter, but how? Leiter no doubt had a local contact telephone number in Minnesota, and Leiter was bright enough to play along and not to say anything stupid if Bond called him. But Bond had no idea what Felix Leiter's local telephone number was, or how he could get it.

But maybe, just maybe, there was one person he could call.

"Ah beg yo' pahdon, Mr. Stamp?" Bond began. "May Ah use yo' telephone? Ah can think of one appointment I simply must cancel rahght away."

"Use this phone right here." Stamp indicated the telephone on his desk. Bond got up from the couch, and promptly seated himself in front of the desk.

 _No privacy, naturally._

He turned the telephone toward himself, picked up the receiver, and began dialing.


	11. Chapter 11

"Hello?" A woman's voice answered.

"May Ah speak with Felix, please?"

"I'm sorry, but Felix is out of town this week. May I take a message for him?"

"You must be his wahf?"

The woman hesitated. "Yes, I am."

 _No, you're not, not yet,_ Bond thought. _And you won't_ want _to be his wife after I say what I'm about to say._

"Verreh good; mah name is Tipton? Please write it down. Tipton, T-I-P-T-O-N. Joshua Tipton?"

"T-I-P-T-O-N," the woman repeated, indicating that she was writing down what Bond told her.

Bond continued. "Felix was supposed to be meetin' me this week. He asked whethah we might wanna get togethah in Jacksonville?"

The woman hesitated again. "Jacksonville?" the woman repeated. "Felix asked about meeting in Jacksonville, in Florida?"

"Yes, that's rahght. We were both lookin' forward to it. But Ah'm afraid Ah have to cancel our meetin', due to unforeseen difficultehs."

"Cancel your meeting," the woman repeated. "Will Felix know what this is in regard to?"

"Most certainleh. Just tell him that I cain't make it to Jacksonville, and please tell him Ah'm sorreh he went to all that trouble to get a plane ticket and make all those hotel arrangements. I'll contact him sometime soon to set up a new meetin'."

The woman's voice was suddenly less agreeable. "All right, I'll pass this message along. But, uh, my husband is traveling, and it may be some time before I can get in contact with him."

"That's all rahght," Bond responded smoothly. "Just give him mah message when ya talk to him. It's not an emergency. Thank ya kindleh. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

Bond hung up.

 _I hope that does it._


	12. Chapter 12

All Bond had to do now was wait. Wait, and hope that Stamp's men didn't suggest that Tipton was not who he seemed to be.

If he was right, the wait wouldn't be that long. It was early afternoon. _Maybe by five o'clock...?_

Bond decided that he needed to change his appearance. Rubbing his beard, he asked whether there was a washroom nearby, and a razor that he could use.

"I've got someone who will shave that for you, Tipton," Stamp said. "You'll never have a better shave than what he'll give you."

"Ah must confess, Ah'm kinda attached to mah beard," Bond replied meekly. "Ah'd really like to do it mahself."

One of Stamp's men took Bond to a restroom, and brought Bond a small scissors, a safety razor and some foam.

Bond was alone in the restroom. He quietly locked the door from the inside.

Bond checked the restroom mirror to make sure it was a true mirror. It was. Just as as standard precaution, he scanned the corners and the vents for any locations that might conceal a camera, and saw none.

Bond then tried gingerly to peel off the fake beard, an operation that turned out to be more involved than he had expected. Whatever Madeline had used as an adhesive did not want to give up easily. Washing with water had no effect. Bond supposed that a solvent such as alcohol might be worth a try. He searched the room for rubbing alcohol, aftershave, a forgotten glass of scotch, anything with alcohol in it. He found nothing helpful.

Bond started peeling away the beard in small pieces. As he detached each piece, he flicked it into the loo. Peeling off the beard left red, irritated skin behind, and there seemed to be no way to avoid that.

Getting this beard off was going to take some time.

As Bond worked, he imagined what Felix would be going through right about now.

The woman Bond had talked to on the telephone was named Marla. Though she said she was Leiter's wife, she was actually Leiter's current girlfriend, though Bond knew she fancied herself as Leiter's fiancée.

Bond also knew Marla and Leiter had met in Jacksonvile, Florida.

While Leiter was working in Jacksonville some months ago, two women took a strong liking to him, and they competed for his attention. Eventually, Marla won the competition, and her competitor, Deidre, lost. Marla had been with Leiter ever since.

Deidre still lived in Jacksonville.

Marla, Bond knew, was the suspicious type; the jealous type, too. She would be overwhelmed with curiosity as to why Leiter would be going to Jacksonville; worse, that it was _Leiter's idea_ to go to Jacksonville. And she would be especially bothered about why Leiter had not said a word to her about it.

Marla had been told that Leiter was a salesman and that travel was a big part of his business. Now, if Leiter followed his past procedure, he would have left some way for Marla to get in contact with him in case of emergency. Though Bond had said there was no emergency, he was pretty sure that Marla would think otherwise, and would want to give Leiter an earful. Leiter would understand quickly enough that the real message was that Bond was in trouble.

Assuming he could calm down Marla (and even if he couldn't), Leiter would tell Vandenberg that Bond had made a call later than expected, and that he had called someone other than Vandenberg, and (if Marla had told Leiter that the caller had a Southern accent) that Bond made his call while still in character. The conclusion would be inescapable. Bond was supposed to be away from Stamp by now, but he wasn't. Something had gone wrong, but Bond was still playing along, under cover.

Bond suspected that if Vandenberg were like most other FBI men, he'd recommend a direct approach, storming Stamp's house with men and guns. That would mean he'd have to assemble or secure some warrants, call in more men, come up with a plan, and get everybody on board. Those things would take time.

But if Felix Leiter had any say in the matter, the approach might be more subtle. And help might arrive more quickly.

Whether the rescue was subtle or brazen, Bond was determined to be ready for it.

The beard was nearly gone. With just a few spots of false beard on his face, Bond decided to try shaving them off. He lathered up and gently scraped away the bits with the razor, rinsing the razor after every stroke.

When he toweled off the final traces of foam, his face was splotchy red. The redness would go away eventually, but there was no way to conceal it right now. Bond decided to make his face even less perfect by giving himself a few intentional nicks with the razor. Small crimson lines appeared, and Bond applied tissue paper to them.

He flushed the loo. _Goodbye, beard._

When he exited the restroom, Bond found one of Stamp's men waiting in the corridor. The man's expression clearly showed surprise at Bond's new appearance. The man escorted Bond back to Stamp.

Stamp was astonished, and his expression suggested he was especially surprised by the reddish color of Bond's cheeks and chin and the bits of tissue paper stuck to his face.

Bond laughed. "Ya know, it's been so long since Ah shaved, Ah almos' forgot how! 'Fraid I made a few mistakes. But they'll heal quick enough. We got some tahm to prepare to do this thing, doan we?"

Stamp nodded absently. "Yeah, at least a couple of days. You've got a lot of prep to do. We'll talk after we eat. I told my staff to bring some sandwiches for a late lunch: ham, chicken, cheese. Is there anything special you want?"

Bond shook his head. "Naw, whatevah y'all're havin' is fahn."

Bond felt he was becoming quite comfortable with his accent. He hoped it sounded as good to everyone else as it did to him.

The sandwiches arrived. Bond took a cheese sandwich and took a bite. It was awful. Cucumbers might have made the sandwich palatable. _But putting cucumbers on sandwiches is not the American way, is it?_ Bond threw the partially eaten sandwich on a plate, and decided to go hungry.

As everyone else ate, Bond cleaned the tissue paper from his face and took some time to think. Bond had called in the cavalry. All he had to do now was anticipate how they would rescue him.


	13. Chapter 13

One of Stamp's men laid a briefcase on Stamp's desk.

Stamp turned to Bond. "Open it."

Bond did. Inside the felt-lined case were stacks of US currency. Bond did not touch the currency, but he did a quick estimate. _That seems like the sum that Stamp promised._ Bond closed the case.

"That's yours," Stamp said simply. "Count it if you want."

"That woan be necessareh."

Stamp continued coolly: "Now since you're going to be our guest for a while, I recommend that we store this case in a secure location in the house."

Bond's voice was icy: "So it's not realleh mine then, is it, if ya'll're holdin' onto it?"

"If you wish, tomorrow one of my men will put the case in a safe deposit box at a bank, and will give you the key. In any event, the fact that you've seen the cash should tell you that I am ready, willing, and able to pay you for your assistance."

Bond seemed to ponder the point, then slowly nodded. "Rahght, then, let's get to work. Ah got some questions for ya, and yo' boys, some things I need to know."

Stamp smiled smugly. "Fire away."

"How much do you know about British Intelligence?"

Stamp had apparently not expected such a blunt question, and Stamp and his men were reluctant to answer at first. Bond pressed, saying that he needed to know what they knew in order to pull off the impersonation.

And eventually Stamp and his men divulged what they knew.

To Bond's utter shock, Stamp and his people seemed to know next to nothing. Much of what they _thought_ they knew was wrong. They had very strange notions of how missions were assigned, monitored and run. _Her Majesty's Secret Service would never operate that way. Never._

They didn't mention M or the Double-Oh program. They called Double-Oh-Four by the name of "Winston," which Bond knew was not Double-Oh-Four's name.

"Winston," Bond drawled. "Is that his first name or his last name?"

After some hemming and hawing, they confessed they did not know Double-Oh-Four's real name. They started calling him "Winston" because they had to call him _something._

They knew the man Bond was to portray was named Bond, but they didn't know his first name.

Bond had no intention of enlightening them. But he nevertheless pressed Stamp and his men for information, so that he would know how they thought he was supposed to behave if he wanted to pass as British Intelligence.

It was clear that whoever had told Stamp about British Intelligence had actually done a shoddy job of it. _Foreign intelligence services wouldn't be so slipshod, would they? So where did Stamp get his information? From an amateur? More likely, from someone who has_ some _knowledge about the British Secret Service, but not_ much _._

Bond then asked about what they knew about other intelligence agencies, especially the CIA. They said they knew nothing about the CIA.

"They leave us alone," Stamp said, shrugging.

 _Stamp seems to be telling the truth,_ Bond thought. _He hasn't had any dealings with the CIA. That he knows of._

"So ya didn't get yo' info about British Intelligence from the C-Ah-A, then?" Bond pretended to be puzzled. He asked in a mock-joking manner: "So where'd ya'll get it, from the F-B-Ah?"

Bond noted that some of Stamp's men seemed to be nodding, though they said nothing. Stamp gave an evasive answer, pleading that he didn't know much about the workings of the FBI, either.

 _Now Stamp is lying,_ Bond thought.

Further conversation seemed to prove Bond right. Stamp actually knew quite a bit about the Bureau. He mentioned some subdivisions, some of which Bond knew were headquartered in cities other than Washington; possibly Chicago or Kansas City. _Vandenberg would know where these subdivisions are, and he would know whether these subdivisions had any connections to British Intelligence._

At one point, Stamp casually referred to one of his sources as "my man in Washington."

 _Washington? The home of the FBI? And if you have a man "in Washington," might that suggest that you have other men as well, located in other cities?_

Bond decided to return to the issue of why Double-Oh-Four was so important to Stamp.

"That's not really your concern," Stamp muttered uncomfortably.

"Oh, but it is!" Bond replied. "If Ah'm gonna lure this man anywhayah, Ah need to know _everything_ you _think_ you know about him!"

"The less you know, the better."

"No, the _mo'_ Ah know, the better! Mah _experience_ has taught me that much."

Stamp mulled it over for a minute.

Bond slowly realized that he thought he knew what was bothering Stamp. Up to now, Stamp had said a lot of things, but nothing that was seriously incriminating. But if Stamp explained how Double-Oh-Four became a problem, Stamp might be risking incriminating himself and his people. So Stamp might be mulling over whether he could trust this Tipton fellow.

Stamp decided to tell the tale, though what he said was slightly sanitized. "We were helping some immigrants come into the country, so they could find work in the United States."

Bond understood at once. _You mean, you were trafficking slaves_.

"We didn't know it at the time, but some of these immigrants came from lands that are part of the so-called British Empire; and apparently some of them came from well-connected families. Anyway, we figure someone complained to the British government, and we started seeing a lot of this clown." Stamp pointed to the picture of Double-Oh-Four. "We spotted him nosing around our buildings, checking up on our watercraft, following our people. We thought he was American, maybe CIA. But some of my people overheard him speaking, and they said he didn't sound like an American. He sounded like a Brit."

"For a Limey spy, he must not be a verreh good Limey spy," Bond observed. "You spotted him quick, huh?"

"We spotted him, but we couldn't get close to him. He was able to get away from us every time we tried to ask him what he was up to."

 _Or kill him_ , Bond thought.

Stamp continued: "So this Brit shows up, and we spot him nosing around; and suddenly we start having problems like we'd never had before. Equipment breaking down. Storage facilities and motor vehicles catching fire. Immigrants being taken away. Bad newspaper stories. Trouble from local law enforcement. More people needing to have their palms greased."

"Ya think this one Limey was responsible fo' all that?"

"No doubt about it. One of our contacts in the Bahamas said he thought the man was British Secret Service, and that seemed to be the most reasonable explanation."

 _Oh, so you got some intelligence from someone in the Bahamas, eh? That's nice to know._ Bond pondered who it might be.

"This man, 'Winston,' whoever he is, has cost me millions already, and that's no exaggeration. He's going to cost me millions more unless he's stopped. You wonder why I'm willing to pay you 750 G's? Because if you can get rid of this rodent, you'll save me five times that much, at least."

Bond thrust out his lower lip. _That still doesn't add up. $750,000 is still too much to pay for such a simple job. Maybe it's supposed to buy Tipton's goodwill for another job Stamp has in mind?_

"Well, see, here's what Ah doan understand, Mr. Stamp," Bond crooned. "Ya want me to pretend to be a British agent, rahght? Your whole plan is based on this other fellah bein' a British agent too, rahght? Ya _think_ he is a gummit agent, but what Ah'm hearin' is, _ya doan realleh know_! What if he ain't a gummit agent 't'all? There ain't gonna be no way I could lure him anywhayah! He woan even know who Ah'm s'posed to be!"

"Of course he's an agent! What else could he be?"

"Could be he's just a P-Ah."

"Are you kidding?" Stamp laughed caustically. "This guy's a _pro_ , he's no cut-rate private investigator! Besides, my friends in American law enforcement said he was British Intelligence."

 _Friends in American law enforcement, you say? It's looking pretty clear that_ _Vandenberg was right: Stamp does have a mole in the FBI, probably more than one_ _. Whoever these moles are, they've had some contact with British Intelligence, but not very much. One of these moles may well be the source of the misinformation about Her Majesty's Secret Service._

"These American law enforcement people: they knew he was British Intelligence but didn't know his _name_?" Bond tried to sound skeptical.

"They had some information about the Brits, but not a whole lot," Stamp explained. "Besides, I didn't care about his name. I was more interested in finding out who he might be working with. And do you know what? A couple of days later, they showed me a picture of you; you and a couple of other British spies."

 _American law enforcement people who know about British Intelligence and have a photo of me? That narrows down the list of suspects._

"A picture o' _me_?" Bond pretended to be surprised.

Stamp chuckled. "No, not a picture of _you_ , Tipton; a picture of the man you're going to impersonate. Only, _I thought it was you_."

"Oh?"

"I'd seen your picture, Tipton." Stamp smiled. "I've had men check you out. In fact, I'd thought about hiring you a couple of times in the past. And in fact, when all this is over, there might be another problem you can solve for me."

"A _Federal_ problem?" Bond guessed. _Could it be Stamp wants Tipton's help with the FBI after all, and his present generosity is to assure he'll get Tipton's help to wage war on the Feds?_

"Yeah, but that can wait. The Feds won't be able to move for at least a week."

 _He's got someone inside the FBI, for certain. Maybe even in Vandenberg's unit?_

"This British Intelligence thing has to be taken care of first," Stamp insisted. "Anyway, when I saw that picture of that British agent, and realized he looked like you, I thought you _must_ be a Brit spy. I thought that you and this Bond were one and the same man. But my men checked you out, and they found you and Bond were two different guys. That's when I got the idea, that's when I thought you might be able to help me with my little problem. You pretend to be this Bond; and you lure that Brit spy who is giving us all this trouble into a little trap. We can't catch him. But _you_ can. And we need you to do it soon."

"How soon?"

"We've got a major operation taking place in the next few days, and we think 'Winston' is going to try to cause trouble. We'll fly you to Nassau, under your real name, with your real passport. When you get there, we'll have you make your presence known. If things go as we suspect, you'll spot Winston, or he'll spot you."

"Ah suppose Ah just tell the Limey spy he needs to meet me someplace? Someplace more _private_?"

"Yeah." Stamp laughed. "If all goes well, it ought to be that simple. He'll recognize you as Bond. You just tell him you need to meet, and you tell him where. We'll have someone waiting to greet him at the meeting place."

"Clever," Bond muttered. "And I jus' have to hope that the _real_ Bond ain't anywheah nearbah. Where is the real Bond now?"

The moment he asked the question, Bond realized he should not have asked it. _Careless of me!_

"London; he just returned from Vancouver in Canada." Stamp suddenly turned to one of his assistants. "Mike, did we get confirmation that Bond is back in London?"

"Not yet."

"Rawling should have gotten back to us by now. It's Rawling, isn't it, in London? I know he said there were some weather delays, but the plane should've landed in London by now, right? Call him up, I don't care if it's the middle of the night there, and find out what he has to report."

As Mike left the room to make his call, Bond mapped out what had probably happened. Bond was supposed to take a flight from Vancouver to Toronto, and another flight from Toronto to London. If the London plane had landed by now in spite of the weather delays, then the London man would have looked for Bond. He surely did not see Bond, so he would have called his counterparts in Toronto or Vancouver, to double-check whether Bond got on the flight to London from Toronto. Or whether he got on the flight to Toronto from Vancouver.

Or whether he got onto some other flight.

It was only a matter of time before Stamp's people would find out that Bond had flown to Minnesota, not to England.

Bond wondered if the cavalry would arrive in time.

Then Bond heard the distant sound of a dog barking viciously, and he breathed a sigh of relief. _This must be my rescue!_


	14. Chapter 14

"Who in the hell is coming up to the house?" Stamp wondered aloud. He craned his neck to see out of the window. "Looks like a delivery truck. Why did they let him come up to he house?"

As if in answer, the door to the office opened, and one of Stamp's assistants came in. The barking of the dog seemed to become louder when the door opened.

"Your new conference table just arrived, sir."

"That isn't supposed to arrive until next week!"

"They called a few minutes ago, said the table arrived from the factory early, and they thought they'd deliver it right away."

Stamp checked his watch. "Deliver it at 4:45 in the afternoon?"

"They said they had engine trouble and tried to be here sooner. They said they were going to call us sooner, but couldn't find a pay phone to call us, they said."

"Did you _search that truck_ before letting it come up here?" Stamp's voice was icy.

"Yes, I looked through it myself. Opened the back. Nothing in there but furniture."

"You're certain?"

"It was just sofas and easy chairs, mostly. The conference table you ordered was in there, near the back, ready to be unloaded. Didn't look to me like it was the table you ordered, but the driver said it would look all right once they got it assembled."

"How many many men are there?"

"The cab had three men: the driver plus two men to help move the table."

 _Only three men?_ Bond had a pang of doubt that this was indeed a rescue. Stamp had at least a dozen armed men, and they could easily repel such a small force.

Bond noticed that Stamp was hesitant to allow the delivery. Bond decided to help Stamp decide. "Ah suppose the table has to be unloaded first, befo' all o' those othah sofas and chayahs can be unloaded?"

"Yeah, that's right," said the assistant. "They said they want to unload the table now so that they don't have to unload it and reload it with every delivery."

This indeed did help Stamp decide. "I don't want those morons to unload and reload my table. They'll ding it up! Have them unload the table right now and take it to the conference room."

"Yes, Mr. Stamp."

"But first, I want to see the shipping invoice."

"Yes, sir."

"And get Garrity to keep that dog quiet."

"Yes, sir."

The assistant left the room, and Stamp quickly followed.

Bond tagged along.

The driver of the delivery truck was standing in the foyer, holding a clipboard with an invoice on it.

Bond didn't recognize the driver.

Four of Stamp's men watched from the back of the foyer.

Everything about the driver looked like he was a furniture deliveryman: his muscular arms, his well-worn work shoes, his stooped posture, his sweaty work shirt, his five-o'clock shadow. _What if this is a_ real _furniture delivery?_ The thought gave Bond a brief chill. Bond stole a glance at the clipboard; the invoice attached to it seemed to be authentic.

"Are you Mr. Stamp?" The driver held out the clipboard. "I need a signature, please."

"Did you bring the right table?" Stamp asked accusingly.

The driver was unfazed. "Sir, I brought the table that is shown on the invoice. I need you to sign, please."

Stamp took the clipboard and began scanning the document attached to it. "Okay. The table shown here is the one I ordered. But I'm not signing anything until the delivery is made and the table is set up in the correct room, _undamaged_ ," Stamp growled. Stamp handed the clipboard back to the driver.

"We'll have to cover this carpet, sir, to protect it from the dolly," the driver said. "Will we need to go up or down any stairways?"

"No stairs."

"Is this the best door to use? I measured it; it is wide enough to accommodate the table."

"Yeah, this is probably best."

"Will we have to move though that doorway, there?"

"Yes."

The driver pulled a tape measure from his pocket and, holding the clipboard in his armpit, made a quick measurement of the doorway.

"Wide enough. Your conference room has a double doorway, does it?"

"Yes. Wider than these doors here."

"Okay, we shouldn't have any problem, then." The driver pocketed his tape measure and jotted a couple of notes on the clipboard.

Bond felt another chill. _This man is behaving exactly like a furniture deliveryman would behave. This might not be the rescue I've been hoping for._

"Will you be sure to keep your dog confined, sir?"

"Yeah, he's confined."

"Would it be all right, Mr. Stamp, if I brought my crew in here as well? You could show us where you want the table to be set up, and we can take note of any other obstacles we might need to avoid while we move it?"

Stamp didn't hesitate. "Yeah, sure."

The driver left, and returned a few moments later in the company of his assistants, both of whom were carrying plywood covers to protect the carpet.

One of the assistants was Felix Leiter.

Bond couldn't help but smile. _Lovely feint, Felix! It sure fooled_ me _!_

Bond moved behind Stamp, to his right.


	15. Chapter 15

Things happened fast.

The plywood carpet protectors hit the floor, and the crew revealed themselves to be armed with machine guns. The driver too showed himself to be armed with a pistol, which appeared in his hand so quickly that no one saw from where it came.

Stamp reacted, simultaneously trying to flee and draw his weapon, but he found himself quickly disarmed and restrained by a very strong man. Stamp further found himself being manhandled into the firing paths of his own armed men. It took Stamp a moment to realize who had grabbed him, had taken away his gun, and was using him as a human shield.

"Tipton!"

Moments later, six additional armed men in business suits burst into the room. "Hold it! FBI!" shouted one. It was Vandenburg.

Stamp's men had been caught completely off-guard. They froze for a few seconds. Their guns were out but they were unable to get into a position to use them. They saw their boss was being held by a man with a red face, obviously in league with the FBI, and that their boss was too close to the line of fire. They had no options. They dropped their weapons and surrendered.

The dog outside continued to bark.

Four of the armed men in business suits went off to search the house methodically. Vandenberg came up to Stamp, pulling a small stack of warrants from his jacket, waving them briefly in Stamp's face, then returning them to his jacket.

"Sigurd Stamp? You are under arrest, Stamp. These are warrants for arrest and search. Narcotics violations, federal kidnapping, firearms, that's just for starters."

Stamp was seething. "Tipton, you'd better make out a will, you rat!"

"That's rahght," Bond drawled in his Georgia accent. "Ah'm a rat. Ah woulda helped ya with yo' little problem, but ya know what? These nice gennelmen kindleh asked me for mah help first. And unlahk you, they wouldn' try ta _kill_ me aftah Ah helped 'em."

" _Kill_ you? I wouldn't have killed you!"

"Oh? You'd pay me _seven hundred and fifteh thousand dollahs_ to pretend to be this Limey fellah for, what? An hour? Seven hundred and fifteh G's fo' _one hour_ o' work? You must think Ah'm pretteh stupid, doancha?"

Bond stole a look at Leiter's face. The expression was priceless.

"We appreciate your assistance, Mr. _Tipton_ ," Leiter said, following Bond's lead. Bond was still under cover, and this was not the time to reveal who he really was. Leiter couldn't help but ask one question. "What happened to your face, Mr. Tipton?"

"Had a close shave," Bond drawled.

Additional vehicles arrived presently, and the FBI took all of the occupants out of the house.

Upon seeing Stamp, the man named Mike yelled, "Mr. Stamp! Mr. Stamp! I just spoke to Vancouver!"

"Shut your mouth," ordered an FBI agent, hustling Mike into one of the waiting vehicles.

The vehicles departed. The dog stopped barking.

Vandenberg walked up to Bond.

Bond looked at Vandenberg, then at Leiter, and in his normal voice said, "You have no idea how close a shave I had, Felix."

"I'm dying to hear. But first, you owe me an apology, James. Marla called me to tell me that she had just received a call out of the blue from a man with a Southern accent who said his name was Tipton, and that the man with the Southern accent had told her that I was going to Jacksonville to see Diedre. She demanded to know whether it was true."

"I am sorry, Felix, but it was the only thing I could think to do. But for the record: I mentioned only Jacksonville, not Diedre."

"As if Marla wouldn't put two and two together." Leiter shook his head. "I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do. Honestly, James, I'm not certain that I'll be able to patch things up with Marla. Not only does she think I was planning to rendezvous with Diedre, she thinks I'm a liar for denying it!"

"Tell you what, Felix: I'll talk to Marla and make her think she was the heroine in this whole business, all right? But first: I may have some information about intelligence services and moles and information leakage. This material would be of interest to you, too, Vandenberg. I can tell you some cities where Stamp's informants are; and I can also tell you the scope of some of their assignments and responsibilities, and some of their contacts. I can tell you what information they know, and what information they think they know but have wrong. With that, you ought to be able to track down who the informants are."

"Did you get any names, Bond?"

"No names. But here's something that might interest you: Stamp seemed to know you were getting ready to move on him, so I thought one of the moles might be in your unit. But now, I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Because you'd clearly been planning this furniture delivery for some time."

"You're right. We had been planning this as part of a surprise raid."

"Whoever the mole is, he didn't know about it. You caught Stamp flat-footed."

"My men are solid," Vandenberg said, trying to suppress a smile. "And Bond? One more thing?"

"Yes, Vandenberg?"

"That was pretty quick thinking grabbing Stamp. Especially since my men and I were late to the party."

"Late to the party?"

"We were wedged underneath a bunch of sofas and chairs in that truck. It was Leiter's idea. Good places to hide. Made it impossible for us to be seen. But you were right, Leiter. It was harder for us to get out than we thought."

"Ah," Bond nodded. "A typical Felix Leiter operation. Looks good on paper, but in practice it's a debacle."

Leiter took the needling with good humor. He explained: "Actually, it was Lee's plan."

"It was a _variation_ on my plan," Vandenberg corrected. "We were expecting to carry it out next week, in a different way. Using the delivery as a diversion. We never expected to do things like _this_."

"But when we realized you were in trouble," Leiter continued, "I revised the plan to deliver a small rescue team, hiding among the furniture. Vandenberg and his men were supposed to come charging in ten seconds after I went through the front door. As you may have noticed, they were just a tad tardy. And you also may have noticed that, for a few uncomfortable seconds there, we were outnumbered. But when you grabbed Stamp and disarmed him, that pretty much ended the conflict."

"I just had a thought." Bond mused. "The _real_ Joshua Tipton, when he gets released from custody, may find that his reputation has mysteriously taken a turn for the worse."

"That would be a shame," Leiter grinned.

Vandenberg grunted in agreement. "Bond, let's get you to debriefing."

"Will there be food at debriefing?" Bond asked. "Stamp served sandwiches. They were rubbish."

"Whatever you want, Bond."

"And Felix?"

"Yeah, James?"

"I really could use a vodka martini, made just the way I like it."

THE END


End file.
